


Exeunt

by pied_pollo



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Character Study, Episode: s09e24 Demons, Gen, References to Shakespeare, Symbolism, an unhealthy amount of symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: Alas, poor Yorick.Her son is a skull now, and the thought makes her shiver.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	Exeunt

_Fatal flaws_ , Alex is thinking when she walks down stairs that creak underfoot, careful not to disturb the wood. In the distance is her friend, a man who is not her son and never will be, yet, he is so incredibly—no, just that.

Spencer Reid is incredible.

But he is lonely and afraid. A cotton swath protects his neck, shielding the exposed and broken skin underneath, and as Alex moves farther away from him, she holds her own hand to her throat, massaging a goodbye from damaged and tired vocal chords worn from years of apologies and farewells.

It’s not goodbye, she tells herself, and it isn’t. She is exiting the scene, just for now, because the next act is for Spencer to play alone. He is likely used to this tragedy, and so is she, but they observe from different perspectives. There are honey eyes on her back that mourn multiple losses; Alex thinks she isn’t strong enough to stay, he thinks she is strong enough to walk away.

He also thinks that it is his fault she must go.

_The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings._

Above are the stars, and they are glittering with a cruel coldness that mothers and sons share, that romantics and ghosts know well; stars that have stayed and changed; stars that blink into space when you focus on an empty spot in the sky for long enough and collapse into infinity as the years go on, when you forget.

Someone will take Alex’s place.

It will be okay.

She knows it will be okay, hopes it will be okay, because looking up at Spencer—Romeo, watching from the wrong end of the balcony—she shares his thoughts of death and family; of endurance; of the what-ifs; and of romance, which lies compressed like dried irises between the pages of Juliet’s last breath, just inside his satchel.

He himself did not take his last breath just yet, but he almost did, and that—the _almost_ , the _not yet_ , the _too close_ —is what moves her feet forward.

Alex gets into a taxi and leans her head against the window, unwilling to follow Spencer into the abyss, but there it is, that void: stretched out against the sky underneath a blanket of constellations. Inescapably tempestuous; as the sky grows darker, it presses down, collapses inwards against the windows, until the universe folds in on itself and Alex cries.

She hasn’t done that in a while, crying, and not just pearly tears of frustration, but waves of emotion that crack her heart and pour arterial blood down her face, exposed to the heavens. Tears are infectious; tears are septic; tears dry and leave salty residue to scrape smooth skin raw. It hurts. It feels good.

She leaves the name as a memorial, leaves her badge as a reminder, because she thinks he deserves to know, thinks he can take it, but neither is sweet; rather, it’s a dagger to his heart, because—unbeknownst to Alex—people have presented Spencer with parting gifts before, and as he is unable to forget he prefers to push in the knives as deep as they will go, in the hopes of making room, in the hopes of hiding the open wounds in his chest.

_Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide!_

He takes the poison each time without hesitation.

If Spencer is the broken heart, Alex is Hamlet, who gazes out the window and ponders her life—just that. She ponders, and thinks, perhaps, of what she is going to tell her husband, her Ophelia back from the dead, who will be thrilled for just a moment until he learns of what she left behind. She thrusts her sword upon her bosom and exits the taxi, knowing full well the reason behind tonight and tomorrow and yesterday and everywhen.

_Alas, poor Yorick._

Her son is a skull now, and the thought makes her shiver.

The atmosphere is warm as Alex enters the house, a heated exhale on her neck, and she pads to the bathroom to cry again, quietly, almost ladylike, head bowed in grief for either the tragedy that did not occur or for the tragedy that did; acknowledging the epilogue of now and the preface of tomorrow.

When the sun rises, Spencer will go back to work despite Hotch’s firm orders not to, and Alex will tuck her gun into its holster before removing it, gently, and setting it on the table like a poisoned chalice. And both of them will sit and both of them will acknowledge their downfalls and their wilted roses, asking themselves the same familiar question in different, unfamiliar contexts: _what now?_

Then they will go home alone, they will speak to themselves, they will make a decision, and eventually, they will leave. Alex will step forwards and Spencer will step backwards, thinking that _parting is such sweet sorrow_ as she moves down her creaky stairs to the next page of endurance and he moves left to the closet where therein lies material memories; strawberry-adorned handkerchiefs that he can’t bear to let go of.

_To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow._

The sky is no longer heavenly nor dangerous; it is just the sky, ever-compressing and black, not like ink, but like nothing, and it suddenly occurs to Alex that Shakespeare was the only one who ever understood her view of endings.

_He dies._

That’s how it was and how it almost went. No curtain call.

Just an exeunt.

But there are sequels. There are intermissions. There are adaptations.

And meanwhile, Alex no longer believes that it should have been her, because fate and circumstance have led her to realize that of _course_ it would be Spencer—with that impossible collapsing infinity in his brain; with those honey eyes glittering with tragedy and telling all, _I have never been considered a protagonist._

Sad as it may be, there is some truth to it. Neither Alex nor Spencer are ever center stage, and neither wish to be because of what happens when you are, so one has learned to adapt and move through while the other drowns himself in the pain others are too important to experience. 

Perhaps, one day, they can both learn to rest and be well, and perhaps, one day, they can be happy without the _almost_ , and perhaps, one day, they can remember their loves without the shadow of their losses. 

But that day has yet to come. 

For now, Spencer’s life is a constant climax because he hopes to one day discover the fault in his stars, and Alex’s life is a series of expositions because she can’t afford another denouement.

So once they are alone, the latter will pull the dagger from her breast and shoo away the tempest because she must, and the former will peel away the cotton-swathed midnight from his throat because he should, and both of them will take their steps forwards and backwards, and both of them will rely on each other to be Hamlet, to be Romeo, and stricken with grief as they are, both will say _farewell for now_ and _let’s be incredible_ —just that.

Alex makes her exeunt, leaving Spencer to write epilogues with arterial blood.

_And the rest is silence._

**Author's Note:**

> DEPUTY MILLS: What, you egg!  
>  _(He shoots him.)_


End file.
